


i don't want you to change (i want you to always be you)

by agloeian, existentialspacecowboy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Arthur grows up as Gaius and Alice's son, Balinor defeats Uther in the war against magic, Kiss Kiss Fall in Love, M/M, Merlin is a little shit of a prince, Prince!Merlin, Role Reversal, and becomes the King of Camelot, but Arthur falls for him anyway, commoner!Arthur, unaware of his parentage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-01-06 01:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agloeian/pseuds/agloeian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/existentialspacecowboy/pseuds/existentialspacecowboy
Summary: “This is the new prince,” she declares, “a little boy. Like you, Arthur.”Arthur scrunches up his nose. “What’s his name then?” Arthur asks. All little boys have names.The King and Queen exchange a mutual glance.“Merlin,” they both agree. “His name is Merlin.”In the two decades since magic has returned to Camelot, the kingdom has prospered under the gentle guidance of King Balinor and his wife Queen Hunith. Some things have changed, others haven’t. Merlin, the young Prince, still bears the weight of destiny on his shoulders and so does Arthur - he just doesn’t know it yet.The Merlin AU where the two sides of the same coin are flipped.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the show B)  
btw: we're uni students, so this update schedule doesn't exist  
i hope you enjoy!!  
*dabs and peaces out*

There’s a door. A _ huge _ door. 

It towers above him like some huge creature, like the ones his father tells him about.

Important. Intimidating. And he’s been told to sit outside. To be quiet and just… wait.

Arthur sways his legs back and forth, kicking against the bench.

It’s so _ boring. _

He’s been out here for a _ really _ long time now. He would complain - if there was anyone he could complain to. His dad _ and _ his mum are busy for some reason, and Arthur thinks that’s _ stupid. _

What could possibly be so important for them to _abandon _him here like this? He’s never going to see them again. They’re _never _coming back. Arthur might as well run away and become a goatherd. 

He’s tired too. He decides that being woken up in the middle of the night is his least favourite thing in the world. Well, besides vegetables. 

The _ sun _ isn’t even up yet. Arthur’s never had to be out of bed before the _ sun _before! 

He’s three and a _ whole _ half; he should be allowed to make his own decisions by now. 

That’s it. He’s going back to bed. 

Arthur pushes off the bench and lands on the floor with a solid ‘thud!’ He’s _ pretty _ sure he knows how to get home from here. He’s done it plenty of times before. Like, at least _ five. _ Besides, all of the corridors look the same, so he’s bound to turn down the right one eventually. He’s just about made up his mind. He’s leaving. 

Then there’s an unexpected creak. “Arthur,” a familiar voice calls out. 

Arthur freezes on the spot. Perhaps if he stays really, _ really _still…

“Where _ are _you off to?” his father asks, appearing around the door frame. 

Arthur pauses. He’s in _ so much _ trouble. But his father wears a soft smile and Arthur cocks his head. It makes him stop, and deliberate. Suddenly, his plans of escape are overcome by something else; curiosity. He tries to peer through the slight gap in the door, but his father blocks it. 

Arthur huffs gently. 

First he’s abandoned for hours - no, _ days! _\- and now his father is keeping a secret from him. The biggest, juiciest secret. It’s just not fair.

It’s an injustice! That’s what it is! 

“Can I _ please _ come in now, father?” Arthur begs, batting his eyelashes. Father always falls for _ this _ trick, even if his mother doesn’t. “I’m so _ lonely _ out here. All _ alone. _ And _ sad. _” Arthur sniffs for good measure.

Gaius smiles. 

“Yes, Arthur. You _ can _come in now. In fact,” Gaius says, opening his arms for his son. Arthur runs up, eagerly accepting the embrace. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” his father finishes, holding Arthur close to his chest. 

As Gaius walks back into the room, Arthur surveys the room, clutching at his father’s shirt. There are other adults here, his mother for one, but also grown-ups that Arthur recognises as the King and Queen of Camelot. 

But, most importantly, there’s an ugly thing wrapped in a blanket.

Except… the ugly thing isn’t all _ that _ ugly. It’s cute. Kind of. It has _ huge _ ears, Arthur decides.

The Queen is holding it kind of like how his father is holding _ him, _close and tight - as if it’s precious. 

Arthur knows it’s precious because the Queen tells him as much.

He peers over the edge of the blanket, brow furrowed and head tilted. “What _ is _it?” Arthur asks. He has to know. He’s never seen anything quite so strange looking before, even in his parents library. 

He looks to his own mother; she’s beaming, and wiping her hands. She comes to settle beside him with a gentle hand in his hair and an encouraging look.

“He’s the new prince,” she declares, “a little boy. Like you, Arthur.”

Arthur scrunches up his nose. “Like _ me? _He doesn’t look like me.” 

“He will do, eventually,” his father explains. “He’s only just been born, you see.”

...Oh, Arthur gets it! “Because I’m a big boy and he’s not?” 

Gaius nods. “Exactly, my boy.” 

“What’s his name then?” Arthur asks. _ All _little boys have names. 

The King and Queen exchange a mutual glance. No words pass between them, but meaning is reflected in their eyes. Adults do this a lot, Arthur finds. It’s very annoying. 

There’s a moment - just one - of silence. Then there’s a nod, a smile and -

“Merlin,” they both agree. “His name is Merlin.”


	2. the beginning of a long day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo welcome back   
thank you for the kudos and comments <3  
*lifts dome off food*  
bone app the teeth

_ 18 years later… _

Of all the ways that Arthur likes to start his day, cleaning out the leech tank is not one of them. It’s a messy job, sometimes a rather  _ bloody  _ job, and Arthur knows that’s exactly why his mother thrust it upon him when she was headed out the door this morning. 

“Would you be a dear and deal with the leeches for me?” She’d said sweetly. "I just have an awful amount of work to do today, and I'm not going to get around to it otherwise." 

Arthur wishes that he could be somewhere else.  _ Anywhere _ else. He’d take scavenging for herbs over this. He’d take cleaning the prince’s boots with his tongue over this. Prying a particularly stubborn leech from the bottom of the tank, Arthur scorns his own inability to say no to his mother. It's a curse, probably. A particularly evil one; one that means sons can't deny their mothers no matter how traumatising and  _ disgusting  _ the request might be.

Not that he'd ever suggest that to anyone aloud. 

He’d rather not get his parents sent to jail for misuse of magic. 

Speak of the old devil - Arthur hears his father approach, coming along the corridor all the while chattering about a spell of some kind, long before the door swings open. The blond idly notes two voices; the first being his father’s, and the other is familiar too. But he doesn’t commit much thought to their conversation - it’s not like he’d understand what they’re blathering on about anyway - instead deciding to continue on with his previous task of wallowing in self-pity and scathing the fact that he was ever born. 

So, Arthur doesn't bother to look up from his work, instead tugging the sleeves of his shirt up higher and calling out, "If mother sent you here just to laugh at me, don't you have anything better to do?” 

“It’s wonderful to see you too, Arthur,” comes his father’s sarcastic reply. “I see you’re in a good mood this morning.” 

Diving further into the tank to reach the final wretches at the bottom, Arthur snaps, “You would be too if you’d spent all morning doing  _ this _ .”

“Oh, hush,” Gaius says. “There are plenty worse chores your mother could have assigned you. Ah, _sire_, would you mind placing those books down on my desk for me?” 

Arthur stills. 

Sire? Did his father just say - ? 

“Of course, Gaius,” the all too familiar voice replies, and Arthur  _ panics.  _

In his hurry to positively identify the second figure, Arthur bolts upright and smacks his head against the side of the tank. He bites his tongue and stifles the less than savoury words that threaten to spill out from between his lips. Escaping the confines of the tank and sitting back on his legs, Arthur rubs at the site of the offending bruise and throws Merlin, the prince of Camelot and heir to the throne, an awkward smile.

“Sire,” the blond is able to force out.

“Are you okay?” Merlin asks, his smile quivering with poorly hidden amusement. “That was a nasty bump.” 

“No, no, I’m fine _ , _ ” Arthur replies, brushing his hands off on his trousers. “Absolutely  _ fine.”  _

Arthur watches as a frown forms across Merlin’s face, the prince’s head tilted and focused on  _ something _ . Eventually, Arthur observes as Merlin raises a hand to his own face, gesturing to his cheek and then pointing back to him.

“You’ve got a -”

He gestures again and, this time, Arthur parallels the motion. Bringing his fingers up to his face, the blond immediately recoils upon feeling an all too familiar wet  _ slime  _ against his fingertips. Leaping up with a start, Arthur hurriedly tries to pull the offender from his face, much to his father’s disdain.

“How many times, Arthur?” Gaius drawls, “You can’t just  _ pull  _ them off.”

There’s a pause, and then Merlin speaks again. 

“Here,” the prince starts, “Let me try.”

Arthur remains rooted to the spot as the prince crosses the distance between them, holding in his breath he tries to look everywhere except Merlin’s face. But he’s too close. Arthur feels himself swallow thickly, throat bobbing as Merlin’s slender fingers touch his cheek.  _ Gods _ , Arthur thinks,  _ let this be over quickly _ . 

“Bebiede þe arisan ealdu,” Merlin’s voice comes, deep and guttural, in the familiar tone that Arthur has come to associate with the prince using his magic. “Áblinnen.”

After a moment, the leech falls away from Arthur’s face and settles in the palm of Merlin’s hand. The warlock looks over it curiously before placing it into the jar to join its brothers and sisters. Wiping his hand on his tunic, Merlin offers Arthur a resolute nod and another smile.

“Thanks,” Arthur voices, returning the smile for just a moment before fading away after another of his father’s scolds.

“I thought you’d be in a better mood today, Arthur,” Gaius comments.

“Why?” Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes for fears of a clout over the head with the cloth his father is currently holding. 

“It’s the prince’s birthday, of course,” his father affirms. “Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten?”

Arthur’s eyes grow wide, and the blood drains from his face for a moment. He looks to Merlin who’s eyeing him in a way that makes him want to squirm.

He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders as he straightens his back and plasters an air of confidence across his features, “No! Of course not!” 

Merlin hums, unconvinced, and Arthur knows he’s in for it. 

“Well,” Merlin begins, somewhat colder than before, “Then you won’t have forgotten what you’ll be wearing this evening too.”

“What I’ll be wearing?” Arthur asks, a deep frown set on his own face. He already wants to run for the hills. 

“It’s traditional Druid dress,” Merlin clarifies, “All the servants will be wearing it.”

_ Servants. Servants?  _

“But I’m not a -” 

“Gaius volunteered you,” Merlin says, with something like a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “He said you have steady hands for pouring drinks.”

Arthur’s head spins to his father with a glare. Gaius just shrugs. “It just came up in conversation.” 

His father’s  _ arse  _ it just came up in conversation naturally. Arthur sees this for the betrayal it is. Nonetheless... 

Arthur sighs, knowing there’s no use in protesting. Once Merlin’s mind is made up, there’s little changing it. “Where do I need to be and when?” he asks instead, wishing for his own untimely demise. Gwaine is going to be at the ceremony. And Gwen. They’re never going to let him live down whatever  _ monstrosity  _ Merlin is going to have him wear. 

“I can have Alice bring you your outfit when she comes back from the palace,” Merlin says, heading in the direction of the door. “And you’ll need to be in the great hall for about six.” 

“I’ll be there,” Arthur replies, much to his own displeasure. 

“Great!” Merlin chimes. “I’ll see you this evening then. And, thank you again, Gaius, for the birthday present.”

Arthur winces - yes, that’s a dig if he’s ever heard one. How long will he be in the dog house for this offence? Arthur can’t help but wonder. 

“It was my pleasure, Sire,” Gaius replies, his eyes boring into Arthur’s skull. 

Thankfully, Merlin only stays a few moments longer, offering Gaius a smile before pulling the door shut behind him.

Arthur listens as his footsteps echo down the stone corridor, growing more and more distant by the second, until there’s blissful silence - that is until Gaius’ rag sweeps through the air, thwacking Arthur across the arm. 

“Ow!” Arthur hisses, clutching at his bicep. “What was that for?!” 

"You stupid boy! Do you know how  _ infuriating  _ it was to hear you moan about what you were going to get the prince for his birthday for a whole month?" Gaius says, now pottering around the room. "And then, you forget when the day finally arrives! Honestly, Arthur!"

Arthur’s pretty sure that his day can’t get any worse. 


	3. a coming of age

Arthur decides that he hates feasts. He doesn’t usually, but he hates this one. For one, he’s been relegated to the menial task of making sure that the cups of the visiting dignitaries are kept full. Two, he’s not allowed any of the mead for himself. And three, perhaps worst of all, he has to wear this ridiculous outfit. It’s a hideous shade of green, like pond-water, and sprouts ludicrous feathers from the hat on top of his head. Arthur knows that he looks like he’s been dragged backwards through a hedge during a fight with a chicken; he knows because of the way Merlin is grinning at him with that  _ ridiculous  _ lopsided smile. 

“It suits you,” Merlin tells him, a laugh barely stifled between his lips. 

Arthur can only muster a frustrated grumble in reply as he swats a wayward feather away from in front of his face. He can feel Merlin watching him and the prince looks somewhat disappointed; he looks as if he’s about to leave, to talk to someone else, all because Arthur hasn’t taken the teasing bait. 

Arthur watches as Merlin looks to turn away and decides he’ll bite, “I thought you said that all of the servants would be dressed like this. But none of them are.”

“Exactly,” Merlin beams, the amusement returning to his face, “I suppose it makes you special, doesn’t it?”

Arthur snorts. There isn’t anything special about him. 

“You are,” Merlin testifies, with a wry glint in his eye and a smirk tugging at his lips, “No one else in Camelot has a head  _ that _ big.” 

The blond’s eyes shoot open and he looks at Merlin, incredulous. A slanted smile spreads out across his face, a breathy laugh and a shake of his head added for good measure. So, that’s how Merlin wants to play it. 

“People are far too preoccupied with your  _ ears _ to notice the size of my head,” Arthur counters. “You would have thought that after 18 years that you might have grown into them by now.”

The prince ponders for a moment, a spark of amusement across his features, before he reaches upwards, grasping one of the feathers, and tugs at it deliberately so that it settles back across Arthur’s face concealing half of the blond’s aspect. 

“There, much better,” Merlin decides. “It hides your ugly mug that way.” 

It’s been this way since they were children. An endless cycle of mild-mannered teasing and gentle mocking. Arthur knows it’s the way they’ve come to show affection for one another, and he’s just glad that Merlin seems to be over his earlier forgetfulness. Or maybe Merlin is stoking the fires of revenge and saving it for later. Either way, Arthur hopes that this never changes between them. He knows it’s a futile hope; Merlin is the prince, the future king, and Arthur? Well, he’s nothing. He’s loved by his mother and father, and his friends, but his proficiency for magic is weak, and it isn’t as if he’s of noble blood to be given the opportunity to actually make something of himself. Things have been better since Balinor’s rule. There’s been more kindness, for one, less reliance on tradition, second. Arthur’s seen the old history books in the library; Uther the Tyrant, the Monstrous King, the Cruel Monarch and his reign of terror. He’s glad he lives under Balinor and Hunith’s guiding hand but, even now, you need talent to make something of yourself. Gwen is a gifted seamstress, Elyan a proficient blacksmith, and Arthur supposes he’s  _ okay _ at medicine but he’s best with a sword. Self-taught, he’s less than half as talented as  _ Gwaine _ . But he’s trying. It’s the only thing he’s ever shown any talent for. Not that anybody knows. 

Merlin clicks his fingers in front of Arthur’s face, and the blond supposes he’s drifted off in thought. He comes back to himself, blinking and refocusing on Merlin’s face.

“You okay there, Arthur?”

He’s about to muster a retort when a third figure comes to join them and Arthur holds his tongue. 

“My King,” Arthur says, bowing his head respectfully. 

Balinor acknowledges the genuflect with a smile and a gentle wave of his hand, “Arthur.”

Turning to his son, Balinor extends his hand for Merlin to take, “It’s almost time for the ceremony, we should prepare, and we had better not keep your mother waiting.”

Hell hath no fury like a woman kept waiting, Arthur supposes and he bows a second time as a respectful adieu to Merlin. 

His friend responds with his own nod of the head - a small acknowledgement - before accepting his hand and turning away. 

***

For all of Arthur’s complaining, he does - at least - get an excellent view of the ceremony. He stands on the sidelines, his own mother and father coming to join him. 

Alice places a hand on Arthur’s arm, she isn’t looking at him but at the prince. She leans close to Arthur’s ear and speaks in a gentle hush-tone, “Doesn’t he look wonderful?”

Arthur pauses for a moment and sucks in a breath - perhaps it’s for the best his mother isn’t looking at him - otherwise, she’d see the longing look on Arthur’s face; the same one that his father has clocked. Arthur looks to Gaius for just a moment before turning his attention back towards his mother and tries not to squirm beneath his father’s knowing gaze. 

“He does,” Arthur says simply. 

He watches as Balinor circles the room and comes to settle in the centre of it. The King looks unbelievably proud. He’s always proud of Merlin, but even more so tonight; a smile is emblazoned openly across his face. By his side stands Queen Hunith, she holds the staff upon which Merlin will place his hands and pledge his loyalty. She, too, is beaming. 

Merlin’s head is bowed in reverence and respect as he kneels before his parents. Arthur would suppose that he  _ almost  _ looks nervous. But Merlin doesn’t get nervous, or so the warlock always tells him. 

_I’m just_ _locked in deep thought; you should try it some time, _Arthur imagines Merlin saying. 

Arthur settles his hand over his mother’s and watches as the murmurings of the crowd hushes, and the ceremony begins.

To Balinor’s left resides an advisor; he carries a plush pillow, deep blue velvet and embroidered with silver thread. Upon it sits a circle of gold studded with crystals around its entire circumference; it’s beautiful, there’s no disputing that. 

The room is filled with giddy anticipation, especially from Arthur. He’s seen Merlin grow almost everyday for eighteen years, and even if the Prince has grown into a  _ little shit,  _ he’s a little shit that Arthur can’t help but be a _ little  _ proud of. 

Not that he’d ever tell him that. 

The King clears his throat, spreads his arms wide. “Friends!” his voice booms through the hall. “Family, allies, and honoured guests… Thank you for taking the time to be with us on this most special occasion. Your attendance here means the world to myself, and to the Kingdom of Camelot.”

“Today,” Balinor continues. “We celebrate new beginnings, the transfer of the torch from one generation to the next. We welcome in a new age - the hopes and dreams of our children, and their children after them. Today we crown my son, Merlin -  _ Emrys _ \- as the legitimate heir to the throne and future king of this kingdom.” The King pauses before leaning forwards, conspiring. “I am so very proud of him.” 

There is a bubble of laughter and a gentle applause. Arthur watches a delicate blush spreads out across Merlin’s cheeks, finishing just by his ears, as he rolls his eyes with a look that screams,  _ “Dad, you’re embarrassing me.” _

Balinor’s own chuckles cease as he recaptures the attention of the room, anticipation swirling. “Now, let us proceed,” the King decides. “After all, there’s plenty of mead which requires my attention before the evening’s end, I’m sure you can all agree.”

Arthur’s sure that the King looks at him.  _ Great _ , is everyone clued in on Gaius’ suggestion to have Arthur as mead-bearer for tonight? 

There’s a sudden change in the air and the King’s stance changes. His back straightens, and his arms stretch wide, as if he calls upon all of the magic in the kingdom for this moment. The great hall turns silent. Full attention now bestowed upon Merlin, his father begins the moment of truth, “Are you ready, my boy?”

The Prince nods and there’s approval reflected in his parents’ eyes.

“Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions in accordance with fair statutes, customs, and laws?” Balinor recites, his voice echoing through the hall. 

“I do, sire,” Merlin confirms, his eyes locked with his father’s. 

The King continues, “Do you promise to exercise mercy and justice in your deeds and judgments?” 

“I do, sire.”

“And do you swear allegiance to Camelot now,” King Balinor takes the staff from his wife’s hands, twisting it around to hold it in front of his son, “and forever?”

The Prince does not hesitate. In one clean motion, Merlin grasps the staff, and says with a conviction beyond his years, “I, Merlin Emrys, do pledge life and soul to the service of Camelot and to the protection of its people.”

The King smiles in the way only a parent can - knowing,  _ nostalgic  _ \- and reaches for his son’s circlet. “Now, being of age, and heir apparent from henceforth,” the King lowers the heirloom, the echo of Camelot’s past, “you shall be  _ crown prince _ of Camelot.”

The applause is deafening. 

Arthur hangs off every movement - the steady way Merlin rises to his feet, the brief embrace he shares with his father, and then his mother - the gravitas the Prince holds as he turns to face his kingdom, his people - his confidant stance, his billowing cloak. 

The goofy, lopsided grin on his face Arthur knows most courtiers would think unbecoming of a Prince. 

It’s so dangerously endearing. 

Yet, at the same time, a pit settles in Arthur’s stomach as Merlin's circlet glints in the candle light; for some reason, its achingly familiar.

***

If anyone were to ask why the feast is particularly rowdy tonight, Arthur would pin it down to the insane quantities of mead he's being forced to distribute. 

He can't get a  _ second  _ to himself. Just when he’s finished fetching a mountain-high bundle of meat pies for one guest, another is asking for a top up, and another, and no, sir, he  _ cannot  _ just give away his entire jug of mead, no matter how much he wants to. 

It would stave off this quickly growing headache, that's for sure. 

Only once the feast begins to wind down does Arthur find a moment to catch his breath, skirting around the walls of the room until he settles in a particularly hidden corner. 

(He doesn't make his way around  _ completely _ unscathed, however. Gwaine - forever poised and ready to make Arthur's life miserable - raises his goblet, the liquid sloshing over the side. 

"Servant!" He bellows, a teasing glint in his eye, before snapping his fingers as if commanding a dog to heel.

Arthur just flips him the bird.) 

It's as Arthur settles, perched on the edge of a now empty banquet table, that he hears Gwen's voice say suddenly at his side, "You're doing a marvelous job of modelling my designs, Arthur."

Arthur turns - stares at Gwen blankly. 

Then it clicks. 

_ "You  _ made this?!" Arthur squarks, ripping the hat off his head and waving it around manically. Gwen giggles, hand covering her mouth, and that's confirmation enough for Arthur. "You're conspiring against me with Merlin, aren't you?! To think, I felt  _ bad  _ about forgetting his birthday when  _ you two  _ were planning this all along!" 

Arthur balls up the hat, slamming it down onto the table. He's officially in a sulk now. They've pushed him into it, alright. 

But "You  _ forgot  _ his birthday?" Gwen is asking aaaaand, shit. _ _

_ You just  _ had  _ to go and reveal that particular detail, didn't you?  _ Arthur chastises himself. 

"I was cleaning the leech tank, Gwen!" he cries instead. "The  _ leech  _ tank! One of them was stuck on my face! You can't blame me for having more important things on my mind when Merlin  _ randomly _ strolled in."

He didn't forget, per se - he was merely  _ unprepared.  _

"I'm only teasing, Arthur," Gwen soothes, softly touching his arm. "When are you going to give it to him?" she asks, eyes flickering over to Merlin at the head of the hall. 

The Prince - well, looks bored actually. He’s nodding along dutifully to the conversation to his left (between two courtiers Arthur doesn’t particularly recognise), but he’s resting his cheek on his knuckles, his eyes lidded. There’s only so long anyone can stay entertained by small talk, Arthur supposes. 

“Tonight,” he replies to Gwen. “Hopefully. I have to get him alone first.”

Gwen hums. Arthur sees her twiddle her fingers from the corner of his eye, but he’s still focused on Merlin, really - the Prince is practically falling  _ asleep  _ at the table - that is, until Gwen hums again and says under her breath, “Utterly smitten.” 

Uh. 

“I’m sorry?” Arthur says, bristled. “What was that?” 

Gwen blinks at him innocently. “Nothing.” 

Arthur narrows his eyes at her - but it’s not worth the challenge. His dignity has taken enough hits today as it is. 

Well, perhaps his dignity can take just one more strike. 

On the other side of the room stands a woman; she’s tall and pale. Dark hair stretches elegantly down towards her waist in gentle waves, a stark contrast to the blood-red dress she wears. She’s caught the attention of many this evening, but Arthur has only set aside a scant number of glances for her tonight, mostly to ensure that her goblet remained full. 

Gwen, however, seems almost fascinated by her. Arthur feels the elbow in his ribs before he sees it and he looks to Gwen with a scandalised look before he turns his head in the direction of where she’s pointing. The woman has started to cross the room, hair and dress flowing with a distinct aura and elegance. Arthur has never seen her before. The lady holds her head high and breezes past them, affording them one small look before continuing on her way. 

“Who is that?” Arthur asks, as if Gwen has all of the knowledge in the world. Luckily, she usually does. Between her  _ actually  _ keeping her ears open and  _ actually _ being privy to all of the secrets and gossip that the other maids of the royal household seem to attain, Gwen is a veritable oracle when it comes to castle affairs. 

“Morgana,”  _ Duh.  _ Gwen explains, holding back a curt roll of her eyes. “She’s here representing the High Priestesses. The King invited her as a peace offering. The Knights haven’t been able to take their eyes off her all night, and I don’t blame them. She’s  _ dazzling, _ ” Gwen finishes with a sigh. 

Arthur nods and understands; he knows how some of those who practice the Old Religion are resistant to Balinor’s forgiveness of the non-magic citizens of Camelot. Arthur views the King’s mercy as a sign of strength, but can see why not all would align with his view.

“I guess she’s pretty,” Arthur concedes before he grows fearful of the glint in Gwen’s eye.

“Do you think she’s the most beautiful out of everyone in this room? If you had to choose someone, that is.”

“No!” The word slips from Arthur’s tongue way too easily, and his brain isn’t even given the chance to stop the thought before it’s said aloud. “I mean,” Arthur pauses, trying to scramble for words and look in deep thought; he knows it falls flat when he catches himself instinctively looking at the Prince. 

“Like I said, she’s very pretty,” Arthur reiterates, attempting to find more admirable traits in the woman circulating around the room. “Her skin is like fresh snow, hair darker than night, she has magic, so she’s talented…” 

But he’s still looking at Merlin, his eyes trained on him. He sighs.

“Utterly smitten,” Gwen states with a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head.

This time, Arthur can’t even pretend he didn’t hear her.

When  _ will  _ this day end? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some gwen/morgana free of charge  
we don't even know - it just happened  
...not that im complaining  
thank you for reading so far! <3


	4. a royal encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again alllllll  
sorry for the wait - uni life is hard and there is much to do  
but it is the holiday now!!! *confetti*  
so enjoy the chapter, and thank you for the support <3

Arthur’s sword is poorly fashioned and crudely made.  Wooden and held barely together by string, it’s nothing like the swords that Elyan’s father makes, but Arthur decides that it’s good enough for now. 

He watches the knights studiously everyday. Well, almost everyday. In-between reading, and writing and all the other boring things his parents make him learn about. He wants to be like them; to be skilled at magic, but he isn’t. He’s tried. So, swordsmanship seems like the next best thing. And, besides, it’s fun. 

The knights practice with each other, but Arthur doesn’t have that same luxury. Looking around the field, he settles on a particularly innocent-looking tree and deems that a worthy enough opponent.

It’s not like anyone else would spar with him. 

Arthur adjusts his stance - just like he’s seen the knights do - focusing his centre of balance, and arranging himself with poise. He pulls his sword back, shoulders and spine curving with the motion - 

And  swings. 

Arthur’s sword collides with the bark of the tree and - upon impact - shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces.

“Well, shit,” Arthur berates himself, his father made him promise that he wouldn’t break another sword - at least not this week. Arthur knows that he’s in so much trouble.

“That’s a rude word,” a voice suddenly says by Arthur’s side. The blond jumps with a start, his head snapping around to face the source of the voice. “My mother says you shouldn’t say rude words.” 

It’s the Prince, standing at his side. Arms crossed, brows furrowed. So, “My mother says the same,” Arthur concedes, “But she isn’t here right now. And you aren’t going to tell her, are you?”

Arthur sees the way that the young prince eyes him with a keen and sharp curiosity. 

“...Fine,” the Prince agrees. “But you have to promise you won’t tell my mother about  this.” 

Merlin splays his hand, his fingers stretched apart and pulled to their limit as he focuses on the remnants of the sword. His eyes turn a shimmering gold as he turns his hand, as if pulling the pieces back together, murmuring a gentle incantation. Within mere moments the sword is returned to its former glory and placed into Arthur’s open hands. 

“How’d you do that?” Arthur breathes, eyes wide. His sword - well, it’s better than brand new. The toy was slightly worn even when his father had given it to him. 

The Prince just shrugs. “It’s easy. You just gotta want it to happen.” There’s a pause. “...Mother doesn’t like me practising my magic alone. She thinks I’ll make a mess. But I’m not a  baby!  I know what I’m doing.” 

Arthur eyes the Prince, the height difference between the two of them. Father has said that Merlin is only five, but Arthur is eight .  Five sounds a lot like a baby to him. 

Not that he’s going to tell the Prince that. 

“You aren’t very good at this, are you?” Merlin inquires inquisitively, his head cocked as if inspecting Arthur.

Arthur almost squirms beneath the observation, “I’m not good at what?” 

At first, he fears condemnation for his lack of sword skills, but, “Magic,” the Prince says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your father teaches me. He said so.” 

He did? 

Arthur cocks a brow at Merlin. The Prince nods solemnly. 

He  did!  The bastard! It’s bad enough being a disappointment to his mother and father without the whole of Camelot knowing!

“So what?” Arthur huffs, internally outraged. “You’re not good with a sword, are you?” 

Merlin squarks. “I don’t need to be! Not when I can do  this!” 

The Prince then promptly shoves Arthur’s chest, his eyes glowing gold once again, and with a rush of wind Arthur finds himself toppling down onto the ground. He lands with a thump, right on his bum, and it stings. 

“Merlin!” A voice cries, crossing from one side of the training field to the other. It’s one of the Knights, one of the new ones. Arthur has come across most of the King’s guard at this point and makes an effort of cataloging them in his mind. He’s going to be one of them, some day, so he has to know. This particular knight - Lambert? Lionel? Oh, Leon! - is quite old, like, sixteen or something, but younger than the others. As he stomps towards them, Arthur shrinks beneath his gaze but Merlin? Merlin stands his ground and Arthur is sure the little prince rolls his eyes at the Knight.

“What has your mother told you about using magic so openly?” Leon scolds - no,  Sir  Leon scolds. 

“I don’t know,” Merlin echoes, blinking innocently at his caretaker. “What has she said? I’m only five. I forget things so easily.” 

Arthur knows that’s a pile of horseshit. 

Leon sighs - extremely long suffering - and grips the bridge of his nose. “Please, sire. Can’t you make my life easy for five minutes?” 

Merlin gives the young Knight a wry smile, as if he briefly considers his proposition. 

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Leon audibly groans this time. The Queen won’t be pleased if she finds out Merlin was getting himself into trouble under his watch. 

But Arthur? Well, he can’t help but find the situation a  little  funny. 

But only just a bit. His bum still hurts, after all. 

A chuckle spills from his lips and Arthur knows he’s in for it. Laughing at a Knight? He’s dead, he’s so dead. Luckily, his mother is the best physician in the land, so Arthur knows she’d be able to put him back together, at least in time for being buried. 

“Arthur,” Leon starts, “Shouldn’t you be picking herbs with your father?”

Arthur squirms beneath the Knight’s gaze, “But it’s boring, I want to -”

“He wants to be like you!” Merlin interrupts excitedly, pointing at Arthur’s makeshift sword, “He wants to be a Knight!”

Arthur turns bright red, utterly embarrassed. He knows he can’t be a Knight - not really - only noblemen are Knights. And Arthur is far from being a grown-up, and even further from being noble. He looks to the floor, shielding the wooden toy behind is back ashamedly. 

But -

Leon’s hand ruffles Arthur’s hair making a mess of his already chaotic mass of dirty blond strands. Arthur looks up.

“Maybe when you’re a little older,” Leon concedes with a genuine, warm smile.

Arthur frowns; he’s used to adults lying. But this doesn’t feel like a lie. Leon makes it sound like a promise. He’s almost convinced.

Turning his attention back to Merlin, Leon folds his arms, “Behave yourself, sire.”

The young prince gives a curt roll of his eyes but nods, “Yes, Sir Leon.” He draws out the Knight’s name and Leon knows it’s utterly sarcastic, but he’ll take what he can get. 

Satisfied, the young squire returns to continue his training with the rest of the Knights. 

Arthur watches as he goes, sighing and looking off into the distance longingly. He turns the wooden sword over in his hands, imagining the boring hilt replaced with something altogether more ornate. He’s already older than the age at which most noble children start training to become Knights; he’s seen them in his books. It already seems like it’s too late, irregardless of Leon’s promises. Accepting defeat, he supposes that he’d better get back to helping his father pick herbs and make sure that he’s definitely at home in time for dinner.

“Leon will help you become a Knight,” Merlin states naively, interrupting Arthur’s thoughts. “He’s not allowed to lie. That’s against the chiva - chival -chivaltry code.” 

“Code of chivalry,” Arthur clarifies. 

“Yeah, that!” Merlin beams excitedly, “You’ll be a good Knight.”

Arthur can’t help but smile. He appreciates the support, even if it’s from a five-year old who probably doesn’t know any better. “Maybe you aren’t so bad after all,” Arthur says. 

Merlin seems to ponder the notion for a while, working through the motions, before deciding that - maybe - Arthur isn’t so bad either. “You’re okay too,” Merlin concludes, “For someone who can’t use magic.”

Back to the insults. Great. But Arthur supposes it’s a start. 

“Merlin!” Another, more gentle voice calls out this time. Arthur recognises the woman immediately; it’s the Queen. “It’s time to go back inside,” she calls again from near the castle wall, her hands outstretched and ready for Merlin to take.

The young prince is obedient this time and breaks out into a sprint, but only gets so far as a few paces. He stops in his tracks as if he’s forgotten something, and he turns to face Arthur again, waving, “Sorry for knocking you on your bum!”

Arthur nods in recognition of the apology and smiles, kicking the grass beneath his boot. 

With the prince gone, Arthur concedes that he’s had enough excitement for one day - it’s exhausting being an eight year old. Stuffing his toy sword into his belt, he returns to the edge of the forest to regale his father with his tale. He’ll tell his mother over dinner later. 


End file.
